


Fangs (Dentata)

by LaVeraceVia



Series: Stars in the Southern Skies [1]
Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hints of Future Geckocest, Mindfuck, Vagina Dentata, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVeraceVia/pseuds/LaVeraceVia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What could prepare him for making love to a goddess? Nothing."</p><p>In which sex with Santanico is not at all what Richie expected.</p><p>***Please pay attention to the story tags. The story is kind of intense, and the tags are legit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fangs (Dentata)

Richie had dreamed of being with Santanico since the first night she appeared to him, all those months ago. Even when his feelings were a Gordian knot of terror and wonder, even when he was half-convinced he was finally going as crazy as everyone always thought he would without Seth there to keep him in check, he couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to fuck her.

But none of his myriad fantasies prepared him for the touch of Santanico's bare skin to his. What could prepare him for making love to a goddess? Nothing. Nothing could ready him for the soft warmth of her. Or the delicious, unexpected taste of her mouth, like tequila cut with clover honey. Or the delicate drag of her skin against his; like the skin of the snakes she drew her power from, the _culebra_ queen's skin remains smooth and dry, sweat-free at all times, even as his skin drips with sweat from their exertions.

But that just heightened the delicious alien _newness_ of touching a creature such as her, he tells himself. After all, his skin was new too, in a way. His new skin hungers to touch hers, everywhere. And so he does: fingertips then palms skimming across her breasts, the tender tips of her nipples, her full lips, the delicate skin of her inner thighs, the vulnerable places behind her ears. And when she sighs and smiles and caresses his body's hidden places in turn, he only hungers for her more. Almost as much as he hungers for blood.

Finally sliding into her feels like Heaven. Richie abhors clichés, but there's no help for it. She's perfection incarnate, and she's his (and he's hers).

Thoughts of the people he's killed for her, the horrors of the Titty Twister, even the pain of Seth walking away from him with that stricken look on his face—they're all evanescent, evaporating from his mind like so much steam over the surface of boiling water.

He shudders, overcome, as she trails sharpened nails down the valley of his spine. She slides her hands down to his buttocks, pulling him against her roughly, driving him further home. The strength of her grip is a surprise, though it shouldn't be. She's stronger than any woman he's ever known, more beautiful too.

She arches, tilting her head back, neck bared, luxuriating in the feel of their bodies together.

“Yesssss, Richard.” It's almost a purr. He loves it, loves how her tongue wraps around the syllables of his name, licking across the second r. He loves how she feels around his cock, hot and grasping and so wet (her skin may be dry, but she's not dry here, not even close). He loves how she looks, lush and breathtakingly gorgeous. He loves how she looks at him, like he's special, like he _counts_. He may even love her; he, who doesn't really even believe in love, who's only ever loved one other person in his life. And Seth was practically an inextricable part of his own self, impossible not to love. Now he's finally _home_ , he thinks (he pushes away the traitorous voice that whispers that his brother was home too, once). He's where he's supposed to be. After a lifetime as a freak (to everyone except Seth), he finally fits.

When he thrusts helplessly into her as she lays below him, it feels _so_ right. She wraps her legs around his waist, and instead of spurring him on as he expects (hopes), she calls a halt to the movement of his hips, with a quiet, amused, “Richard, stop.”

He stops, worried that he's done something wrong. He fears he's been rutting away like some inexperienced schoolboy. And he wants to be perfect for her.

The room spins wildly for a moment. He flinches and reaches up to straighten glasses he no longer wears, and when he opens his eyes he's the one on his back. Santanico's flipped them. She now rises above him, straddling his waist, smiling down at him fondly, breasts heaving with each breath. She still holds his cock inside her, where he remains achingly hard and desperate to move.

He smiles back at her, his goddess; it makes no difference to him if she's on top, as long as her skin is still touching his. He sits up a little, bracing himself on his elbows so he can thrust upwards into her, but he finds himself again pushed flat on his back before he can move.

Her hands press on his chest, levering him down into the covers while she looks at him knowingly, red mouth still quirked in a moue of amusement.

“Easy, Richard. Soon you may move, but not yet. Can you hold still for me, _mi amorcito_? Can you wait your turn?” she asks.

He nods, eager to comply. She's been a slave to the nine lords for centuries; he can give her whatever control she needs in this. He's so eager to come he can feel his own pulse pounding with need in the base of his spine, but not if she doesn't come too. He can give her whatever she needs, he knows it.

So he holds himself still, the muscles of his body almost rigid with the restraint it takes not to respond to Santanico's movements. Especially when she begins to move.

And god, how she moves. Just tiny, barely perceptible circles of her hips at first, seemingly designed to drive him mad. Her eyes are closed, teeth pressed into her bottom lip, the picture of concentration. Her palms remain braced on his chest, and his hands move to cover hers, pressing them down harder into his skin as he braces himself, ignores the urgent, aching need to just _move._

He wants to moan, or grunt, or pant like a wild animal. But he does none of those things, instead focusing on controlling every breath, laser-like focus fixed on chest and groin, where their bare skin meets, as Santanico, seemingly ignorant of his desperation, screws herself on his cock with ever-increasing vigor. The anticipation he feels ramps up, turning each second into a miniature eternity.

She barely moves up or down, denying him even the most rudimentary friction (and let's be honest, it would take so very little for him at this point), but the incessant circling of her hips never stops. It's like she's trying to learn the texture of his cock with the inside of her body, stirring him around and around inside herself, pressing mostly against the base of his penis, where he needs it the least.

Long minutes pass, and he thinks maybe he's dying. His breath comes in gasps now, no longer restrained, and the rigid control with which he's held himself gives way to fine tremors that run across his calves and thighs and buttocks. He is dying. He's dying, but god what a way to go.

And just when he can't hold it in anymore, when he's on the verge of begging her to just _please_ let him move, when he can feel ragged the plea building in his throat, she stops. Her eyes snap open, and she looks him directly in the eyes, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Good boy. Good, Richard. Very good. _Now._ ” And then she fucks him in earnest.

It's so good he can't be bothered to even attempt to roll them back over, just lays on his back underneath her, feet braced on the bed and hands spanning her hips, and does his best to meet her thrust for thrust as she rides him hard.

He feels his orgasm approaching, tries to stave it off as long as he can, inhaling through his nose and resisting the powerful clench of muscle that precedes coming, knowing he can't hold on for long. Then he feels it—the tell-tale flutter of her inner muscles around him, hears her urgent moans, feels her movements become more frantic—and knows she's there too.

He hovers on that amazing moment...feels that shining knife's edge of pleasure right before his body gives in....and then....

 _Pain._ He's awash in a sea of agony. A raw, bitten off scream escapes his throat before he loses his breath altogether.

The location of the pain is unimaginable, unspeakable. It feels like a thousand searing needles biting into the skin around the base of his cock, where he and Santanico come together. It reverberates out in concentric rings under his skin, across his whole body. The strings of whatever pleasure he felt are cut all at once, effectively halting his orgasm as if it never existed. All he can do is gasp, fingers flexing in the sheets as he waits in shocked desperation for the pain to pass.

His brain is sluggish, cloudy with pain, and he'll later blame the nightmarish switch from pleasured endorphins to agonized adrenaline for his initial inability to recognize the source of his pain. As he adjusts to the shock, and he can think again (barely), his first thought is for Santanico, fearful she's experiencing the same excruciating spasms. But one glance with pain-hazy vision shows that above him, she feels no such sensation. Her head is bowed, hair having fallen to obscure her face, as she rides out her orgasm against him. With each movement of her body, there's a tug against his groin that renews the tide of raw, red hurt. And still, _still_ he doesn't understand what's happening.

It's not until after she stops rocking, with one final satisfied, breathy grunt that Richie begins to understand. She tosses her hair back out of her face to look down at him. There's something, a sort of satisfied calculation in her expression that makes something in his head click. Richie can feel the comprehension dawning across his face, can do nothing to stop his eyes from widening in horror and his mouth from gaping like a fish.

Santanico gives a short rueful huff of breath at the sight, amusement still dancing in her eyes, then leans forward to place a lingering smack of a kiss against his mouth. She holds his face still with the grip of one hand, sharp nails pressing into his skin. Then she leans back and dismounts, letting his softened cock slip from inside her. And he can feel it, feel her body disengage from his, feel the needles (teeth? _fangs?_ ) inside her release his cock as the intense pain recedes to an aching soreness.

There's blood, a terrifyingly copious amount, smeared all across his groin. It oozes sluggishly from a dozen small puncture wounds around the base of his cock. And there's more between her thighs. But all of the blood is his alone, and the sight of it is enough to spur his paralyzed limbs into involuntary action, sending him scrambling sideways off the bed and as far away from her as he can get.

Santanico gives him no quarter, rising and following him as he skitters backwards, until his back slams into the wall opposite the bed, and his legs, shocky and trembling, give way beneath him. She crouches down in front of him, moving closer and reaching out as if reassure him.

At this moment, Richie would give or do anything, up to and including selling his own soul (which, _god_ , he may have already done), to prevent her from touching him again. He pushes backwards, trying to escape her reach. But the wall behind him is unyielding and there's nowhere to go. He panics.

“No! Don't touch me!” The yelp is a sound borne purely of hysteria, and embarrassing to his own ears. But he can help it no more than he can stop himself from curling his hands over his vulnerable groin and drawing his knees up closer to his body, protecting himself from further pain.

Santanico's face speaks of disappointment, as if he's the one who's hurt her. She clicks her tongue in irritation. He flinches, inundated by about seventeen different flavors of shame at the same time. He's ashamed of his own undignified, cowardly reaction (Seth's voice whispers in his head: _Really, Richie? Balls not screwed on that tight now, are they brother?_ ). He's ashamed of his own body, almost overwhelmingly so, of the vulnerability and trauma he had no idea it was capable of feeling. He's even ashamed, inexplicably, of letting down Santanico, somehow, as if he should have had a different reaction to the experience of his vampire lover biting into his _dick_ with fangs in her _vagina._

“Open your eyes Richard,” Santanico's voice comes from farther away than he expected. When he uncovers his hands from his face (he doesn't remember putting them there), she's in the chair on the other side of the room. She's still nude but her relaxed posture and crossed legs say that she's been there a while.

“Was it really so bad, _mi amorcito_?” she says consolingly.

Richie feels sick. How can she make light of that thing that's just happened? “You _hurt_ me,” he accuses.

“What did you expect, Richard?” she says gently, admonishing. “Did you think me some simple human woman you could fuck to your heart's content? I am _La_ _Culebra._ And you bound yourself to me, knowing what I was even then. I have given you eternal life, and strength greater than any human could ever know. Did you think I'd need nothing from you in return?”

“I didn't think you'd expect—” he shakes his head helplessly for a moment before gesturing at his own crotch and finishing lamely, “That!”

She waves one hand dismissively, “Oh please. Your wounds have already healed. Check for yourself.”

He does. She's right. There's still blood but the puncture marks have already closed. Only a faint soreness remains.

But it's not the only thing that lingers. He still remembers the feeling of powerless fear that overwhelmed him only minutes ago. It's not a new feeling—he and Seth were well acquainted with it once upon a time, in their little childhood house of horrors—but it's one he never wants to feel again.

It's one he refuses to feel now. He's no one's bitch, not even hers. Mentally screwing his balls on, he stands. “ _Fuck_ this,” he says. Aims a steely glare at Santanico, amends his statement, “Fuck _you_.” He strides purposely across the room, back to the side of the bed where his clothes are strewn haphazardly. He's going to put his suit back on, and he's going to march the fuck out of this room ( _That's my boy,_ says mental Seth).

He has his boxers back on when he feels a light touch on his back. He whirls. It's Santanico.

“Going somewhere?” she asks mildly. “You won't get far.”

“You. Do not. Own me,” he sneers. He tucks his suit under his arm and moves to sidestep her. He'll walk out of this room in boxers if he has to.

“ _STOP.”_ Her mouth doesn't move, but the words reverberate inside his head. He stops.

When he later looks back on this moment, he won't be able to remember if he did so voluntarily. In the sway of her command, the line between his intentions and her desires blurs.

She wraps her hand high around his throat, not choking him, just exerting enough pressure so he knows that she could. She cups the other hand around the back of his neck and pulls his face down close to hers, so they're eye to eye.

For the first time, he sees real anger there. “Of course I own you, you silly boy,” she hisses, so close he can feel the words against his lips. “You are _mine,_ as you have been since you first responded to my call, all those months ago. When you let me put my teeth in your throat, you gave yourself to me. You will belong to me as long as I will it. I thought you understood that.” She tilts her head, looks at him calculatingly. She moves her hand to cup his cock through his boxers. He gasps, a hiccuping sort of sound. She smiles. “I think you need a demonstration.”

She gestures to the large mirror situated over the dresser. “Go stand. Face the mirror.”

He won't beg her. He won't. He does. “Please.” He doesn't even know what he's pleading for.

She stands behind him at the mirror. He's tall enough to nearly obscure her shape behind him. When she pulls his boxers down to mid-thigh, all he can see of her is her hands. He watches himself in the mirror, sees the devastated look in his own eyes, notes the bright blood already beginning to dry darker in his pubic hair and still shining wetly on his already half-hard cock.

He sees the reflection of her hand slide around his hip and down his belly to grasp him. The pleasure he felt at her touch earlier that evening trickles back in. She strokes him quickly with a loose-handed grip, hand slip-sliding in the blood. Once, twice, a third time. Pauses just long enough to make his hips buck forward unbidden into her grip, before setting a steady pace. He tilts his head back and exhales through his nose, warring with himself. It's a losing battle.

Santanico slips around him to watch. She leans her body against his side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, then biting gently at the same spot with blessedly blunt, human teeth. By the time she meets his eyes he's fully hard again. Her smile is knowing.

“See, _culebrito_? This doesn't have to be difficult. Your body knows what it wants. I can provide you with those things. Just as you will provide me.”

She slows her movements, but tightens her grip, circling her thumb around the head. There's a tell-tale tingling in his lower back, and his vision wavers in the mirror. He wants to come, needs it, but remembers the pain that accompanied his last almost-orgasm. He resists.

Santanico rises up on tiptoes, soft breasts pressing against his arm. Noses against his ear; whispers, “Come, Richard.” He slaps both hands against the dresser in front of him, bracing while he grits his teeth, head bowed. He holds out.

He feels her trail the fingertips of her free hand slowly down his spine, stopping to scratch lightly at the base of his spine, tickling. She presses his cock upwards against his belly, hand still wrapped around, knuckles pressing low beneath his navel. Drags her thumb once more over the tip. He dimly registers a sharp pinch at the base of his spine as he hears her voice in his head, “ _Come_.”

He cries out as his orgasm is ripped from him, crumpling forward to rest his forehead against the mirror, riding out the pleasure as his hips move against nothing.

She pats his stomach reassuringly when he's done, then wipes a sticky trail of his own release off on his hip. He raises his head to meet her eyes once again in the mirror. She looks at him knowingly.

“See?” She brings her other other hand to her mouth, licks his blood off her fingertips. He feels the answering pain in the small of his back, where she'd dug her nails in as he came. He shudders.

“I told you,” she finishes mildly. “You're mine. Now go take a shower. You need it.”

She leaves him staring at himself in the mirror, tossing back over her shoulder, “Get some sleep when you're done. You're going to need it.”

 

*****************************

  
He stands directly under the shower spray with his eyes squeezed shut, letting the water sluice off the blood and semen. He's set it to nearly scalding, but he barely even feels it. He wishes he couldn't feel anything.

He especially wishes he couldn't feel Santanico. She's left him to shower alone, but he's aware of her presence in the next room through the tie of his blood to hers. The thought simultaneously repulses and arouses him.

He thinks of how Seth would laugh at him if he were here now. Or maybe he would box his ears and hug him fiercely. He'd probably do both, being Seth. He wishes he'd listened to his brother. Now he'll never see him again. _Goodbye brother._ He feels a faint echoing throb in his chest and head.

His eyes fly open. _Seth._ He feels the sensation again. Then he understands. He'd set teeth to Seth, tasted his brother's blood after he turned. They were tied now as well.

The link is weak, just a faint shimmering red thread. Seth's many miles away from here. Somewhere to the south of him, and west. But he's out there. And Richie can find him. He smiles, tips his head back to feel the water wash over his face. The Gecko brothers can ride again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Thanks for reading! Also? The whole teeth-in-vagina thing? Totally a real fear that people (men) had, once upon a time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vagina_dentata.


End file.
